Music paints the scene when nothing is sung
I need no drums,
Just the steadily unsteady beat of my pulse
Pumping turbulence through my blood vessels
Capillaries - like passages for packages
Addressed to my fingertips
Conducting a slight tingle
I take those delivered scraps and try
To make sense of the miscellaneous
Newspaper clippings saturated with mod podge
Doodles of rose thorns fashioned into earrings
I sweep the fragments into something new
Pouring music like lemonade
Into glasses for myself.
It’s okay if I’m the only tester to taste.
These lemon splotched letters slide into papercuts
And burrow into those blood vessels
Delivered to my heart again,
Where a flower encircles like a crown
Waiting for this:
Final stage of the rain cycle.
A little washed out.
Extended so as to pull myself onto
Little rock islands,
Made of paper mache,
Risking the papercut in exchange for salvation.
Learning that bitter lemonade is still lemonade,
And these collages